


Goodbye, John

by LinaRai



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm Sorry, John Watson's Blog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinaRai/pseuds/LinaRai
Summary: John Watson's final blog post.
Kudos: 3





	Goodbye, John

When I was younger, I asked my mum why we called them fairy tales and not just stories. I remember her smiling at me, used to me asking questions she didn’t know the answer to, and she said that all fairy tales began with ‘once upon a time’. I frowned and said that some stories began like that, too. So, she told me that they all had a happy ending. I accepted that answer, and finished colouring in the pirate I had drawn.

  
This story is not a fairy tale. It does not begin with ‘once upon a time’ and it most certainly does not have a happy ending. But, as people are so keen to remind you, life is not a fairy tale.  
I suppose I should explain the story properly, from the beginning, so it makes more sense to you. That is the logical way to do it, after all. I have always been a very logical man. The problem, however, is that the ending to this story is seared into my mind, playing over and over again like a record stuck on repeat.

  
I should start at the beginning anyway. I’m not even sure what that is, anymore.

  
I suppose it was when we met for the first time. It always makes me smile to myself, thinking back on it now, because everyone was so desperate to warn him away, telling him that I’m dangerous, and that one day, I’ll kill someone. They weren’t exactly wrong, but it was ironic that less than twenty-four hours later we were standing over a dead body, and it was not me who put it there. It was John Watson.

  
He was the first person to ever compliment me, you know. Most people get annoyed at me because I know almost everything about them just by observing, but he thought I was brilliant. It is nice that someone did.

  
Since meeting him, John Watson improved my life endlessly. There was someone to actually talk to (other than Billy the skull, of course) and someone to pay half the rent. And - who am I kidding - he was my best friend. He showed me that maybe I wasn’t as emotionless as I thought and even though I struggled sometimes, with all that social stuff, he was always there to tell me when I was being rude or to give me a pointed look when I had overstepped.

  
He was a retired army doctor. He was an adrenaline junkie. He was like me; he loved the thrill of the chase and the high of danger, but he was infinitely kinder and more compassionate than I could ever be. As I said at his wedding, you can count on me to solve your murder, but John Watson will save your life.

  
Living with me, and solving cases with me, came with risks. And he knew that, right from the beginning. He was held at gunpoint, kidnapped, had bombs strapped to him and even nearly burnt to death, to name a few. Almost every time he was in danger was because of me.

  
If he were here, he would protest. Say that he knew the risks he was taking and that it wasn’t my fault. The problem is that he isn’t here, and I can’t help but shake the feeling it was at least partly my fault.

  
Last week was when it happened. It had been a quiet day at Baker Street, and I was bored. I was also probably driving John up the walls with my complaints, but there wasn’t anything either of us could do about it, so we had been playing Cluedo. He had given up after I stabbed the board again – it was such a mangled wreck it was a miracle we could play it in the first place – and decided to go to the shop to buy something for us to eat and some milk.

It was only when I realised he had been gone for an hour that I started to worry. I text him, but there was no response. So, I called him. This time, someone did pick up.

  
“Hello, Mr Holmes,” a young woman’s voice drawled over the phone. She sounded almost bored, but I could tell she had been doing some sort of exercise from her breathing.

  
My body froze at hearing the unfamiliar voice. “Where’s John?”

  
“Oh, I’m sorry, John can’t answer the phone right now.” She replied lazily. I could practically see her smiling through the phone. My jaw clenched. “Why not?”

There was a brief pause before she responded flatly. “He’s dead.”

  
My brain could not comprehend that sentence for a full thirty-two seconds. I felt like I had been winded, as if I had floated out of my body and was watching myself from above, spluttering into the phone.

  
“W-what?” was all I could manage.

  
A scream sounded from downstairs: Mrs Hudson. The voice in the phone must have heard it because she laughed, a cold empty ringing noise that jangles through my nightmares. “You better go see what that is. It has been my pleasure, Mr Holmes. Goodnight.”

  
I stood completely still for what felt like hours, my mouth drooped slightly open before I was woken from my daze by the sound of my phone hitting the floor. I threw myself down the stairs, barely touching half of them, and found a hellish scene at the bottom. Mrs Hudson was sobbing frantically over a completely still and pale John. They left him on the doorstep with a bow tied around him.  
I leaned down, desperately searching for a pulse that I knew I wouldn’t find. When it became blindingly obvious that there really wasn’t anything I could do – he had been dead for around an hour, at a guess – I stood up and vomited violently onto the stairs. My best friend was gone.

  
It hasn’t been the same without him. In fact, I still find myself talking to him even though I know he isn’t there. The flat seems so empty, and it is much harder to solve a case without my blogger.  
Lestrade let me help on the case, of course. He is worried about me. Most people are. I barely ate or slept for a week trying to find out who hurt my John. I did it, in the end.

  
It was the daughter of the cabbie who John shot on the very first night we met. Revenge. She found a diary that belonged to her father and managed to figure out it had something to do with us. She was found dead in her apartment when the police went to arrest her. She took the same poison that her father had used to kill his victims. Her whole apartment stank of rotting flesh; she had been dead for days and no one had noticed she was missing.

  
That brings us to now, I suppose. Nothing important has happened since then. The funeral is next week. I don’t want to go.

  
I thought you should know, however. This blog was what attracted most of our cases. I never really saw the importance of it, but I think you have the right to know. This will be the last post on here since there isn’t a John Watson to continue it.

  
Goodbye, John.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It's my first fanfic, so sorry if it is a bit OOC. I was in the mood to write a short and depressing thing, and this is what happened.


End file.
